


Maladies

by klaviergavout



Category: 1776 (1972), American Revolution RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Sickfic, i read a thing somewhere saying they both got ill a LOT during their lives so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 18:38:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7981978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klaviergavout/pseuds/klaviergavout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Adams and Thomas Jefferson help each other out whenever possible, whether that be in Congress facing political opponents, through their letters writing deep religious debates, or during their own personal catastrophes. And sometimes, they get ill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maladies

"'In our own native land, in defence of the freedom that is our birthright, and which we ever enjoyed till the late violation of it -- for the protection of our property, acquired solely by the honest industry of our fore-fathers and ourselves, against violence actually offered, we have taken up arms. We shall lay them down when hostilities shall cease on the part of the aggressors, and all danger of their being renewed shall be removed, and not before.'"

John puts down the half-finished pamphlet on the writing desk, clearly finished, and yet continues to stare at it, squinting slightly in the candlelight. "Thomas, this is incredible. Your rhetoric is astounding, as is your way with structure. God himself only knows why you do not write more often."

"Perhaps if you were to let me work on my current assignment, John, you would find that easy to answer."

The remark, although not cold, is said with annoyance- and John looks up, up from the desk, up from the pamphlet, and straight into Thomas Jefferson's eyes again. They are tired, they are dull, they are filled with illness and malady, but he loves them all the same as when they are healthy eyes, wonderful eyes that gaze into his with an love unmatched by any other in the world. And with only a glance John Adams is thrust back into the real world, where he is sat in Thomas Jefferson's home, looking at a man who has been bed-ridden for days.

It takes him a minute to bring forth an answer. His throat seems to have closed in on him. "Oh, come now," he manages at last, unusually calm, " you know you're in no state to do papers."

"John."

"You know I'm right, Thomas. Until your wife returns home, I am to look after you, and look after you I shall. No writing, no vigorous movement, and _certainly_ no violin. After all, how could you put it to your chin what with all the blankets--"

" _John,_ " Thomas says, and it is firm and it is gentle and it is a plea and when John hears that tone of voice, rare and full of hoarse emotion, his breath catches in his throat and it remains there. "Let me _write._ "

John Adams is an adamant man, and yet it is now that he falters, reprimands left hanging on the tip of his tongue. He takes a moment to think on what he must do next, because although he is but a man of few words and a tender heart, Thomas Jefferson is also an adamant man. Yes, John Adams knows it, has seen that man's soul borne onto those very pamphlets, innards of feeling spilt onto pages upon pages of war, and conflict, and revolution. It is hard enough, now more than ever, to keep the buildup of emotion in check, to keep the dam from bursting when the British are practically battering it in from both sides. And John Adams knows, therefore, that Thomas Jefferson is going to write, whether he himself wills it or not.

John knows, however, that there is always a way to win, and he smiles a lustreless smile, filing through the papers on the desk and picking out the newest, dated _August 1775_. He allows himself to laugh, a kind and senseless laugh, before he gets up onto stocky legs from upon the swivel chair.

"Oh, no." Thomas speaks, to no one in particular. "I see John Adams has a plan."

He knows, too, that Thomas is, as always, correct.

* * *

The next week, John is sick. Tonsillitis, he tells Thomas Jefferson, during one of the many recesses the Continental Congress tended to have, with a pout so resentful that it could be matched only by that of a child. Tonsillitis, he tells Thomas Jefferson, and his voice can hardly be heard over the hubbub of the delegates, something so uncustomary that Thomas feels a little on edge. Tonsillitis, he tells Thomas Jefferson, and his throat is burning and his head is burning and all he wants to do is participate, but he physically _can't_ \- at least, not in the way he envisions.

John Dickinson, that day, cuts down Federalist ideals with ease, and John Adams is unable to shout him down, unable to scare him back into his Pennsylvanian seat, unable to look him in the eye and scream bloody murder until he's faced with something less ridiculous. Instead he fails, miserably.

And so Thomas Jefferson ends up walking him home that night, but not after finding him up in the bell tower, moping with his head in his hands.

"John, you _need_ to stop being so hard on yourself."

"Thomas, did you see how I was in there? _Pathetic._ I can hardly talk. I can hardly hear. I feel as if I might never be useful again." He took a deep, shuddering sigh. "This could do it, this could be the day that tilts the scales. Dickinson might just get his way-- for _good!_ \-- and I can hardly do anything about it, can I? Until this dreadful illness goes away, I'm utterly useless."

Somewhere along the line, Thomas' hand has slipped into the pocket of John's overcoat, and has intertwined with his.

"John, you know that's not true. You can write. You can talk-- barely," he adds, noticing the unamused look John is giving him. "And besides that, you have Lee, Franklin and I to back you up. Dickinson will never get his way, not as long as John Adams exists."

John smiles weakly, giving their hands a gentle squeeze. "I'm flattered, really. But that's not true. I may have Virginia and the congress outlier, but he has the rest of the South."

"And when has that ever stopped you?" Thomas nudges John's shoulder with his, slightly. "Where's that commitment you always say about?"

"It isn't here right now." After a moment of uncertain silence, his gaze strays to the floor, and he is red-faced and evidently ashamed. "I'm sorry, Thomas. This whole illness has made me feel completely unlike myself. I just want to be cured so that I can get back to working properly."

"And I have every faith that you will be, in due time." Thomas stands up, and John with him. He turns and leans forward and, after a quick survey of the surrounding area, kisses John Adams lightly on the forehead. "Tomorrow we shall get back to the task at hand, but for now, I think it's time to get you back home and into bed."

Emotionally-wise, John seems to be unaffected, for his eyes almost bug out of his head when he hears this. "Are you _mad,_ man, it's only just gone eight o' clock!"

"That doesn't matter."

Thomas Jefferson looks at him with adamant eyes, and John Adams falters once more.

"Perhaps not."

* * *

The next week, Benjamin Franklin is ill.

They send him a card.

**Author's Note:**

> The quote at the start is from the Necessity of Taking Up Arms, but as I couldn't work out on my own which paragraphs John Dickinson didn't edit from Jefferson's original draft, I just plopped one in that I liked.


End file.
